Anger of the Angels

by Thomas Duder

  The smaller man took a step forward as well, brandishing the modified bazooka - a strange contraption with a sword-like bayonet affixed to the front and footholds on either side of the business end, "Eh, EH! Where the Nobles point, the Wormwood Agency secures! This land is our land, Troll!"

  Dash and Tim began to curse harder and harder at each other, edging closer towards one another while Tyler, watching, simply laughed. Frank glanced at the taller Wormwood agent and nodded towards their bickering partners. Finishing off his cigarette, Tyler stubbed out the butt as Frank inserted himself between the two arguing fighters, "Hey, heeeeeey, easy now. The Knobs wouldn't've sent y'all if they weren't certain you'd cause trouble on a night like this, right?"

  "You want some of this, YOU WANT SOME OF THIS, JOLLY GREEN BUTTASS?!" Tim roared, jumping up so his enraged glare could be seen over Frank's beefy shoulder.

  "Yeah, HELL YEAH! C'mon leprechaun, I'm feelin' fuckin' lucky!" Dash nearly reached over Frank, letting his mouth drop slightly as he spoke, to show off his row after row of jagged, horribly sharp teeth, "You smell fuckin' pretty!"

  "Guys, GUYS!" Tyler held his hands out, bringing them close before bringing them apart again, "C'mon, what is this? Look at you, we're all supposed to be professionals here!"

  Tim growled but backed down. Dash, finally reaching over Frank's shoulder, pointed at the small man and grunted, "He fuckin' started it!"

  Getting their rambunctious partners to settle down, Frank and Tyler turned towards one another, their history of working together already coming to the fore.

  "So, you've guessed that Karsiel has hired a Necromancer," Ty nodded, his thumbs hooked around his suspenders, war club dangling, "And that the Nobles have sent us here to exterminate its handiwork. This particular Necromancer is pretty high up there too - he was able to raise such an army in less than a day, according to our research, and may have already claimed a Place of Power for himself. Not a lot of Necromongrels can do that, and this COULD be an effective enough roadblock to stall you Shopkeepers for a bit."

  Frank nodded, murmuring his thanks for the free information, Kitty already finding and reviewing their information regarding the Grateful Undead, the political faction that ruled over zombies exclusively, the gristly materials of the undead that were highly prized and jealously sought after by fledgling and even master Necromancers alike.

  The group itself had quite a few names, but the trio who led them counted themselves as the oldest known living undead in history. "The Immortals," or "The Nobles" as they were known publicly, were the living avatars of lethal seduction and grace, of devastating power and authority.

  Irena Stone, The Flapper. Abdul Kader Moor, The Gentleman. Anthony Turnbull, The Mask.

  "Dancers in the Dark, Whispers in the Wind," Frank continued aloud, counting off their names.

  "Stop that," Tim frowned at him darkly, his pale skin reddening up.

  "Look," Dash growled, his huge thumbs hooked into his pants pockets as he glared at the handymen, "We're kinda in the middle of something right now and you two iiiiidiots are being a bother. Shoo, shoo, go tell the Knobs that we got this."

  Tim, about to launch into a new tirade, settled down as his taller partner placed a hand on his shoulder and nodded, "It appears that our business plans for tonight are somewhat parallel. What say we take care of the Necromancer and fade into the background? In that sense, we can certifiably exterminate our objective and you'll have one less problem to worry about on this little street war of yours."

  Frank nodded, "Sounds good. I knew we could come to an amicable agree-"

  "Five hundred thousand," Tyler interjected suddenly.

  Sputtering despite himself, Dash cried out, "YOU OPPORTUNISTIC, JACKAL SON OF A BITCH!"

  Holding the enraged UnGrimm Troll back, Frank massaged his massive shoulders, calming him down as he looked over his shoulder and responded, "One hundred thousand, and not a penny more."

  The smaller agent grunted in response, ignoring the group to focus on cleaning up his bazooka. Stepping forward slightly, Tyler held a hand out with a smile, "Deal. You can have Brownstone send us the money once all this is put to rights. Put it there, pal."

  Shaking hands with a nod, Frank hauled Dash down the alleyway, ignoring the troll as he hurled insults and curses down the alleyway. Spinning him around and once again taking to the sidewalk, Frank chuckled as Dash patted his shoulder, "Hey, boss, what was with that? Those jerkasses just got cash from us! We oughta-"

  "Bro, broooooo," Frank grinned, wide and malicious, "We just got the Wormwood Agency at a steal! They're gonna take care of this Necromancer problem while we continue our rampage to Karsiel. And at ONLY a hundred thousand American, chief!"

  For a moment Dash's eyes crossed as intelligence warred with his surliness, only to turn slowly into a long, jagged-toothed smile. Laughing, he cuffed Frank's shoulder and nodded, "Holy shit, that's right! See, that's why yer my dude, bro!"

  Chuckling, the gruesome twosome trotted further down the street, ready to take on the next challenge.

  Back in the alleyway, Tyler chuckled as he shouldered his European bar mace, blinking as Tim tapped his back to get his attention.

  "Hey," the smaller man grumbled lightly, "Why the hell did we just take on a contract with those assjerks? You KNOW I can't stand 'em-"

  "Bro, brooooo," Tyler chuckled, patting him on the shoulder, "We just got a hundred thousand from the world's most notorious misers. Those guys would shank God if they thought it'd save them a penny or three! We just bled the Shop, bro."

  Tim, thinking on it, suddenly grinned and barked with laughter, "Oh, OH! HAH, I see! Yeah, HELL yeah!"

  "Plus, we were going to do the contract anyway," Tyler clucked his tongue in thought, "And now we've got a little bonus comin' to us at the end of it. I'd say that's a pretty good bonus, it is!"

  ****

  Round 2

  Tracking down the Necromancer proved easy for the Wormwood Agents. Highly trained by the Nobles to recognize all forms of necromancy, both malign and beneficial, they, themselves, could spot the subtle workings of such magic. To commune with the dead was something all living beings could do.

  It was only from the otherworldly energies of the Necromancer that the dead would easily communicate back.

  Beating and bashing all corpses along their way, the Agents made their way west, dispatching what simple, shambling undead they came across, as was their wont. They stood before the massive gates of the La Brea Tar Pits, having survived the Havoc almost completely intact.

  Tim, clutching his modified bazooka close, grumbled almost to himself, "Yeah, this isn't a trap. This couldn't be a trap, naaaaaaw."

  Tyler, coming abreast of his partner, chuckled, "Trap or no, we're goin' in. We got a contract to enforce, and the Nobles will it. All malignant puppeteers will be destroyed."

  Tim turned to the side and spat, his gaze taking in the park before he grumbled aloud his oath, "Hail the Grateful Undead."

  Nodding in agreement, Tyler immediately ran into the park at full speed, ignoring the interplay of magical signals that were sent at his intrusion. Following closely behind him, Tim immediately opened up his own senses, casting his larger range of battle awareness and intuition even as Tim did the same.

  Seeing the park as if from above, both became aware of the modern-looking buildings and outdoor exhibits dotting the sprawling park ground. Thick, black, bubbling pools of tar clustered the grounds, made all the more stark by almost brilliant marble and white rock sculptures of trumpeting mastodons, in the process of being submerged in the tar or reaching out from the banks. One of the heaviest recipients of reconstruction shortly after the Havoc of 2012, the La Brea Tar Pits became noteworthy for their contributions to the local museum and art industries, both in space and excavation information.

  That there were more bodies buried in the tar pits themselves than in all of Las Vegas didn't help either.

  To the Wormwood agents, though, it made little sense for
a necromancer of any form of ability to ever use the place as a base of operations. From the viewpoint of a necromancer, the tar itself would cling to their materials too tightly, stopping the unnatural locomotion of energy required to mobilize their most basic units.

  Zombies could take a massive amount of damage, but weren't inexactly the toughest of the undead. As a shambling horde, they could be tricky, especially if armed and capable of enough thought to use their armaments. Beyond that, there were far stronger constructions to be found in the field of Necromantic Magia.

  Both agents, running faster than a normal, average human should, stopped in their tracks as they beheld a new, gruesome sight - along the paths winding around and on top of the tar pits, guard rails glowed faintly with bio-luminescence, giving sinister highlights to the flocks of black birds that now strutted confidently about the sidewalk itself, blocking their way.

  Hissing lightly, Tyler's hazel-colored glare took in the tableau as Tim turned to the side, seeking a way around the blockade.

  "Gods, I hate this spell," the taller man growled, raising his bar mace up before himself in en garde position, glaring at the birds beyond it, "What's worse is neither of us picked up on this. I'm startin' to get a better idea which of those Necromorons this one is."

  "Ditto, bro," Tim nodded, his brown eyes taking in more information regarding the layout of the place. Motioning with his head, he prepared his own weapon and continued on, "Hey, if we can clear the guards here, the target isn't too far ahead. We can get a better lay of the land from atop that research building over there."

  Tyler noted which of the buildings he meant and nodded, his hazel eyes beginning to take on an evil glow, "Alright. I guess it's time to start our business, then."

  Turning the bar mace to the side, the tall man ran two fingers down the length of the weapon, trailing glowing, spectral runes in his wake. Activating the mace completely, he raised it overhead and snarled a single command word, his aura erupting dark and sickly purple, "DIE, DARLING, DIE!"

  As he slammed the tip of his mace to the ground, crushing the concrete below him, tendrils of dark force erupted forth, reaching out for each of the white-eyed, unnaturally moving birds. Amidst squawks of dissent, the tendrils formed hands at the end and grasped at the birds, holding them in place as the spectral fingers sank into unresisting flesh and feather.

  At once, the hands crushed whatever they touched - wing, breast, throat, head and more. Hundreds of the black birds crowding the walkway died within an instant, sending blood and feathers floating into the air.

  Taking wing, the thousands waiting on the rooftops of the nearby building suddenly cascaded upon Tyler, engulfing him completely in streaks of flashing talons and unnaturally edged beaks.

  Laughing wildly, Tim landed on top of a nearby building, gripping his bazooka for a moment before launching himself back into the air. Slipping his feet into the holsters, he came down hard and fast before bouncing back into the air once again, propelled by the bazooka's modified edge. In this way did he pogo-stick his way across the battlefield, spearing what birds dared get in his way, lashing out mid-air with the weapon to slash all about him before coming down hard, spearing body after body of their winged attackers.

  "The gifts of the Immortals are generous beyond compare!" Tim cried out, finally landing on his feet, the density of his body once again shifting to normal as he brandished his weapon towards the cocoon of bodies that surrounded, slashed, and suffocated Tyler, "Stop fucking around! We gotta get."

  His answers muffled, Tyler's mace cut a heavy swath through the avians, tearing a visible line through their offense. Striding out confidently, his skin now gray and leathery, the Wormwood agent brushed ineffective birds from his well- suited form as he sent bodies flying from his semi-impervious form.

  "Flesh of Colossus, yeaaaaaaah," Tim chuckled, waggling his tongue at the birds even as they took to the air, sending out audio and video biofeedback to their master, "You tell him we're comin'. The Wormwood Agency is coming for you, Necromoron!"

  Tyler, following his gaze, propped his mace against his shoulder and grinned, "There is no use running. We're going to hound you until the Immortals’ will has been enacted.

  Prepare yourself, friend-o. We're coming for you."

  ****

  "Reach for the sky, pardners."

  Dash chuckled, playing along and raising his arms quickly. Frank, on the other hand, turned his surly snarl onto their erstwhile friend, ignoring the strangely silent Neo L.A. street they were on.

  "The fuck you want, cornpoke?"

  "I think you mean 'cowpoke,' Frank," Dash chuckled as he turned and clapped their now familiar friend, Agent Jude Maxwell, on a beefy shoulder, "And you shouldn't be here, cowboy. How'd you sneak up on us, anyway?"

  Jude laughed, shaking Dash's hand and nodding to Frank. His ever-present Stetson hat on, the FBI agent grinned and hiked a thumb towards a nearby alleyway, "Boss Mesmer gave me a ride on the shadow express. You'll notice that we, the United Federation of America government and her glorious officials, can't really do much in this situation...but I was at the start of this thing, and I'm fixin' to be at the end of this thing. At least for a lil' while."

  At Frank's quizzically arched eyebrow, Jude chuckled sheepishly before admitting, "Paid vacation. I'm here as a friend of the Shop, not as your handler or anythin'."

  Frank finally chuckled, shaking Jude's hand, taking in the “cowboy” with a complete psychic scan - the chestnut brown hair, pale features and basketball-formed musculature were all, indeed, him. Used to such paranoia, Jude chuckled and did his best not to fidget or put up a defense, making sure he neither looked away nor directly at Frank with his cobalt blue eyes but, rather, straight ahead.

  No need to provoke the surly Shopkeeper.

  Nodding with approval, Frank continued on, "Good. According to Dash's informant, we're gonna happen upon one of Karsiel's defensive points soon - there's an old drive-in theater right up the bat, and we're in the mood to go rumble directly and figure out which idiot this time signed on with Karsiel's crew."

  "Y'know, it's kinda weird that there's so many people willing to fight for him," Dash frowned as they resumed their walk, taking in the eerie sight of the normally busy streets devoid of life, the tall buildings completely shut down and boarded up. None would dare impede in their progress, but help was also not going to come easy.

  "It's less that they're fighting for Karsiel and more that they're fighting against you, Dash, bro," Jude noted.

  Running a gloved palm against his chin, Frank mused aloud, "It's true we've gathered up quite a few enemies, but I'm guessin' it's more the idiots who are out to try their strength against us. Cyber Crime ain't one of those to actively seek out to tussle with us unless they’re certain the rest of Karsiel's gathered goons are strong enough to give us problems. Too bad their leader is…was…an idiot, underestimating us and overestimating themselves. Either way," he chuckled, noting Jude past his empowered shades, "It's good to know we got at least one person on the attacking team that ain't coerced. Until now, most of the people we've contacted are on the defense line or can't get involved for various reasons."

  Jude nodded, "I do wish the Boss could've helped us. That weird thing with him and his shadows, y'know?"

  Dash chuckled, "It's weird - as rare as Shadow Magic users are, there's quite a few native users, ayup."

  Jude laughed at that, "So y'all know 'bout that shit too?"

  "Know about it?" Frank grunted, hands in his pockets as he slouched slightly, swaggering down the sidewalk as he continued on, "My own connection to Obtenebration Magia, my familiar, was there. Gregorio was the one who cursed his shadow. Something the Hammerhound and Mesmer did when they were younger pissed him off but good."

  The tall, powerfully built FBI agent whistled at that, fanning his hair with his hat as he considered, "Wow...all the way back when? Hey, the Hammerhound...is he as ruthless as everyone says he is? His file's damn near completely redacted, an
d the Vatican won't let me get near it."

  The Shopkeepers both shivered slightly, their thoughts regarding the Iscariot priest their own for a moment. Dash coughed politely as Frank explained, "Father Hunden Von Schlaket isn't...a normal priest. He's abnormal even for one of their assassin priests. The guy is seriously dangerous.

  The Zealot, he's the kinda guy who'd kill God if it'd serve the dogma of the Church."

  Dash leaped atop a car, scanning about the moment they came within sight of the drive-in, "He's a good guy, so long as y'all aren't talking religion. Just don't do any psychic shit around hi-OHSHITOHSHITOHSHIT!"

  Dash, tripping over his own two feet, scrabbled backwards on hands and feet as Frank immediately activated his Mage Shield: a semi-transparent red disc roughly the size of a man, floating in front of him. Faster than any of his armors, Frank had caught the same whiff of interdimensional warping at the moment Dash had done so.

  Jude, reaching into his trench coat, immediately pulled out one of his customized .45's, hissing to Frank, "What is it, what's going on?!"

  "Cipher, IT'S CIPHER!" Getting to his feet and flipping the nearest car over, Dash nearly flew backwards as he juked an invisible attack, crushing the center of the car flat.

  "Shit, he's already activated Glitch Mob," Frank growled. Within the blink of an eye, time stretched to an infinite point, his mind operating at the speed of light as he entered Psychic Space for a brief time. He activated his Mage Armor, covering his aura in a massive, full-plate ethereal armor of utter darkness. Around it, a sphere of bricks, stretching and flexing the perceptions of the mind, appeared at his behest. About him, a hundred bubbles appeared, one surrounding the other, enclosing him within a thick layer of protection, despite the flimsiness of each one.

  Opening his eyes, Frank checked his snarl as the young man walked out of the Downtown Drive In - dressed in camouflage pants, pockets bulging with weaponry and tools, the young man looked somewhat average. Setting a leather jacket down, the young man flexed his lithely muscled form, his brown wife-beater undershirt clung tightly in the warm evening. Frank and Dash knew that his stone-cold poker face revealed nothing and were it not for the dark goggles that covered his face, his dark, fathomless eyes would betray absolute no hint of emotion or violence.